Scabber's death, and other stories
by Bagge
Summary: A selection of Harry Potter characters meet one of Death's many incarnations... Various crossovers
1. Scabber's death

**Scabber's death**

_A selection of Harry Potter characters meet one of Death's many incarnations... This series of short stories is a follow-up - and a parody - of "Luna's death". _

_Characters belong to Rowling and Terry Pratchett_

He ran, with the noise of the battle just behind him. Curses and hexes whizzed past him, burning holes in the stone wall. Things were - Wormtail considered as he ducked behind an overturned desk - not at their peak.

Which was a shame really, because on the whole, they were lightening up. Not that it wasn't very hard, considering how rotten the day had started. He had KNOWN that going to the ministry had been a seriously bad idea - it was not as if Remus and the others would be so stupid not to expect them - but, as Bella so patiently had explained to him, he could have chosen between going with them and be killed by his old friend, or refuse and be killed by his new ones, and something in the way she smiled when she said it had made Wormtail immediately decide that a little friendly killing each other between him and Remus was perfectly normal and nothing to shun. So he had came, as loyal as that. And things had went downhill.

Oh, it had started all right. They had fought their way into the place, killed a few aurors, Bella had mutilated some kind of clerk, and then Rockwood had got them into the Department of Mystery and all hell had broken lose. Half of the order must have been waiting for them. There had been Shackelbolt and Podmor and that psycho Madeye. He had got a glimpse of Sirius' cousin, and at least half of the Weasley kids - and Remus of course - and Potter who by now seemed to have seriously lost it. Damned, Wormtail was used to scary things - he WORKED for scary things, he had been a fucking NANNY for the scariest guy in town - but there had been something in Harry's eye that had made him decide, right there, right then, that it was time to quit with a life in the glorious movement of righteous rebellion and take up - say - Mongolian wasp-keeping.

And then the Dark Lord showed up, and things got worse.

And OF COURSE Snivelius had turned on them, in the worst possible moment, and OF COURSE Dumbledore's phoenix had done its stunt, and now the Dark Lord and Potter was doing something immensely complicated and metaphysical, and he would be damned if he would stay and watch the outcome of it. Besides, he felt that his contract with the Dark Lord was probably void by now, anyway, after having backstabbed him like that. Sure, the explosion had taken his arm off, but it was not as if he couldn't live with that. A rat was rather swift on three paws, and it wasn't like he couldn't make himself another one of silver. And he had felt that he owned the Dark Idiot some kind of sign of gratitude, for destroying his life all those years ago. More importantly - the arm that had been destroyed was the one that had been branded with the Dark Mark. No more slave-sign, no more choking chain. Wormtail was finally free.

Which was why, he reflected as he transformed into a rather heavily limping rat and scurried off in search of a suitable sewer somewhere, it was a pity that Bella hadn't found something more useful to do with herself than chasing after him. And she was gaining. Pity, that.

He opened his eyes and considered his next move. He needed an exit. He needed to get out. Funny that, he reflected. He had spent so long he could remember looking for ways out - and all the time he had landed himself deeper in the shit. But he had kept himself alive, and that had been the important part. _Those who turn and run away, lives to run another day..._

Only...

Only, he didn't seem to be in a hurry anymore. In fact, he was hard pressed to remember what he had been running from in the first place. He remembered he had been scared - close to panic - just a moment ago, but suddenly there didn't seem to be any reason.

He looked down at the rat by his feet, the pitiful, bleeding, mutilated rat with his silver paw. He shook his head sadly. Poor bastard didn't make it, then. Then he looked up at the black-cloaked skeleton by his side, and slowly, comprehension dawned.

Oh.

The appearance was slightly taller than himself. It's bony hands clutched the handles of a gleaming scythe. From the depth of the hood, the pointy snout of a rat skull emerged. A faint, blue glow burned in the empty eye-sockets. He pointed at the body.

SQUEAK, he said, not without compassion, but with the air of someone who is not used to any disobedience.

"Squeak?" Scabbers asked.

SQUEAK, the Grim Squeaker answered.

There really wasn't anything else to say.

Wormtail was finally free.


	2. Ron's death

**Ron's death**

_Characters belong to Rowling and Ingmar Bergman_

Ron looked around, bewildered. Things were bad. Seriously bad. Weren't things around here supposed to have _colour_? Weren't things around here supposed to be solid, come to that? Where was "here" anyway?

And just who was the tall, dark-clad, white-faced man, standing just next to him, staring at him with dead, emotionless eyes?

Uh oh...

"Who are you?" he shrieked.

"I am Death," the man said heavily.

"Have you come to take me?" Ron asked, his voice shrill with fear.

"I have already walked by your side a long time," the appearance answered with hollow voice. Ron considered this.

"Bloody hell," he whispered.

"That is a possibility," the appearance noted. Ron buried the face in his hands.

"No, I can't die yet," he moaned. "I've just started to live. I have hardly snogged properly yet! I'm too young!!!"

"Nevertheless..."

"Listen, you've got to give me some time. Just a few years. Isn't there anything I can do?"

"You have had what time was given to you," the white-faced man answered grimly, and Ron sagged in despair, but then Death frowned ever so slightly.

"Of course, there is always..." Ron pricked his ears.

"What?" The appearance shrugged dismissively.

"Nothing more than a formality - I advice you not to get your hopes up."

"Come on mate, out with it," Ron pleaded. The grim reaper nodded.

"It is my custom to let those in my care challenge me in a game of chess," he gravely said.

"Chess?"

"If you can beat me, you will have your life for yet some time." Ron looked at him, first surprisedly, then suspiciously.

"What's the catch?" he bluntly asked. The man's expression remained unchanged.

"That you will not beat me. You can choose not to play, if you wish."

"Not that fast, mister," Ron exclaimed. "I'm game!"

"Very well," the man said and stretched out his hands, both clutched around a small object. "Make your choice."

Ron tapped on the left hand, and was handed a white pawn.

"You got black," he noted.

"That's fitting, isn't it?" the appearance said with what - perhaps - was to be perceived as an attempt of humour. They sat down by the board and started to play. After a while, a grin started to form in Ron's face.


	3. Tonk's death

**Tonk's death**

_Characters belong to Rowling and Neil Gaiman_

Tonks had always said that her clumsiness would one day kill her.

'Mad-eye' Moody, who had supervised her auror training, however, always said that it was more likely that a bunch of crazed dark wizards with wands cracking of power and illegal killing curses would one day kill her if she didn't apply CONSTANT VIGILANCE.

He had turned out to be right, which annoyed her because it's always annoying when your teachers turn out to be right.

On the plus side, she had taught those bastards a few short and sharp lessons about moral, law obedience and not treating other people's boyfriends like they had.

On the minus side, she was dead.

Bugger that.

She looked around. The fighting was still going on all around her, but it was fading away, as if it wasn't of any importance anymore - which, of course - it wasn't. Her body was slumped to the ground, and the rest of the world was mostly gray and misty. A girl, dressed in a black, sleeveless dress, with wild, black hair and a little silver pendant around her neck, picked up her hat.

"Wotcher Tonks!" she said and smiled. "All right?"

"Yeah..." Tonks answered, and to her surprise she actually felt like everything WAS all right. "Yeah," she repeated. "I actually think it is."

"Spiffy!" the girl answered. She took Tonks by the arm and helped her to the feet. "I really love what you have done with your hair, by the way."

"Really?" Tonks said, flattered. Almost unconsciously, she raised a hand and twirled a strand of bubblegum pink between her fingers. "Took me ages to find the right colour, you know. Mum almost had hysterics when I looked for it."

"Everything worth having is worth working for," the girl noted. "Can I try the hat?" She put it on and twirled to let Tonks have a good look. Tonks nodded.

"Suits you like a glove," she said appreciatingly. The girl beamed.

"That's sweet!" she said and took Tonk's hand. "Ready to go?" Tonks hesitated a moment, looking thoughtfully at the ghostlike images of the fighting people. They seemed to be further away now.

"There isn't much of an alternative, is there?" Tonks asked idly. The girl shook her head.

"'fraid so," she said.

"Oh well," Tonks said as they started to walk. "Time to find out about that next exiting adventure, eh?"

"The best time there is," Death agreed.


	4. Sirius' death

**Sirius' death**

_Characters belong to Rowling_

Sirius had had the time of his life. This was what it should all be about. The excitement, the danger, the _fun_. Not being locked up in a stuffy old house. Fighting and running and daring. Duelling Bella, together with Remus and James son - almost like the old days. To bad Peter and Snivelius hadn't been there. Then it would REALLY have been like the old days, and those bastards would have gotten theirs, and no mistake.

So it was with reluctance he had turned to go.

It wasn't like he refused to come, but couldn't it just wait until he had fought a little bit longer, and maybe had a little man-to-man talk with Harry and maybe...

But he had been expected. The black shape had growled towards him, not unfriendly, but indicating beyond doubt that there was no time to linger.

Aw, he had asked. Couldn't he stay out and play just a little longer? Just another five minutes? He had had so fun.

But the large dog had sadly shaken his head, and with a last, longing glance at the others, who were still out there playing and enjoying themselves, he had obediently tucked his tail between his legs and trotted after the Grim. Sirius was a good doggie, after all.


	5. Dolores' death

**Dolores' death**

_Characters belong to Rowling and Terry Pratchett_

Umbridge quickly looked around. Something was wrong here. The school, normally so filled by smelly little brats, was empty. No running steps, no smart answers, no cackling poltergeists. She was also unclear why she was there herself. Hadn't se been doing important business just a moment ago? She was sure she had, but for the moment it slipped her mind. She frowned. It had been something concerning Potter, she remembered. But...

"Hem, hem," a voice said, and Umbridge was suddenly aware of a young woman standing next to her. It wasn't like she suddenly appeared from thin air - it was rather that she suddenly emerged from the background, where she had stood for who knows how long. She was dressed in sensible black, slightly old-fashioned clothes and her black hair was formed in a bun, with a white strand worming out over her forehead. She carried a clipboard, which she consulted.

"Madam Dolores Umbridge, Teacher in Defence Against the Dark Arts, as well as High Inquisitor for Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" she asked with dry voice.

"That's me," Umbridge sneered. "And who're you, and what's going on here?" The girl gave her a cold look.

"My name is Susan," she said without offering the high inquisitor her hand. "I would like to ask a few questions if you don't mind."

"On whose authority?" Umbridge asked automatically. The girl ignored her.

"First, we have a number of reports of substandard education performance concerning practical as well as theoretical application of your subject..."

"What? Who has said that?" Umbridge yelled.

"Followed by," the girl went on, "complaints on inappropriate use of disciplinary actions."

"Lies!"

"Not to mention perfectly _dreadful_ behaviour against the rest of the educational staff. This is working-place hazards, I will have you knowing. To be frank, madam, this school is lacking severely in educational standard, in staff participation and in student care. You can consider yourself being under probation." Umbridge had had enough.

"Just who are you?" she sneered. The girl met her stare without blinking.

"You may think of me," she said with a voice as friendly as icicles, "as the School Inspector. And it's time for the final revision."

And suddenly, Umbridge felt less certain of herself.


	6. Binky's death

**Binky's death**

_Characters belong to Rowling and Richard Adams._

The moon shone. It was the time of _Inlé _

The air was crisp.

Binky sat bolt upright, listening to the night.

There were sounds of soft paws. There were smells

Binky trembled in his cage.

_Hombil. _

In his uncomplicated rabbit brain, Binky rarely thought about things being any different than they were. But now did he wish with all he was worth that he was inside, in the warm, large burrow of the golden-furred _Lav-rah-roo_ who used to stroke him so tenderly, not left over the night in his cage, that he did not smell the stealthy-pawed, sharp-fanged _hombil _sneak closer. But he knew in his heart that things wouldn't be any different.

And towards him came - Binky froze in _tharn_ - a rabbit, but not a rabbit he had ever seen before. Not one of his fellow domesticated pets, living in cages and being fed lettuce and dandelion leaves. No, this was the wild rabbit. The one that burrowed in hillsides untouched by men, the one that defied his thousand enemies, the one that roamed proud under the burning face of Frith. It was the rabbit of legends, the _El-ahrairah _his mother had told him about. Binky felt hope well up in him - because surely _El-ahrairah _could save him from the _hombil. _

But the rabbit that came for him was black. Black as the night. Black as _Inlé_ . His eyes burnt like Frith himself, and the net of the cage melted away like snow for him. Binky retreated as far back as he could, huddling in terror.

"Do you recognize me?" the Black Rabbit said to Binky in a voice that wasn't unfriendly, but that was final. And Binky realized that he did.

"Yes, lord," he answered obediently, and bent his head in accaptance.

Trelawny sighed and put her cup away, not wishing to see any more. Pity. She had tried to break it nicely to the girl, but these things were always so upsetting. She liked Miss Brown - it was a clever girl with her heart at the right place, and perhaps a tiny spark of a seer in her as well. At least, she paid attention, which was nice. Absentmindedly the teacher took a swig from the sherry bottle. She wasn't really in the mood for tea anymore.

Back in the cage, the fox struck its prey, but Binky wasn't there anymore. He followed Frith's Black Rabbit over the fields, towards a hill and a burrow far, far away that he had never seen before, but had known had been there, for all his life.


	7. Minerva's death

**Minerva's death**

_Characters belong to Rowling and Terry Pratchett_

"I must say that I am most thankful for you taking the time," Minerva said and sipped on her cup of tea. "Most people are so rushed these days."

IN MY EXPERIENCE, the person on the other end of the table said, PEOPLE ARE JUST IN TIME.

"I wish I could say the same," Minerva frowned. "Of course, getting in time to class is a somewhat different matter than getting in time to an appointment with you."

YES.

"Could I perhaps treat you with a biscuit? Pomona makes them herself."

I WOULD BE MOST OBLIGED TO YOU, Death said, and Minerva watched with interest as a bony hand emerged from the black cloak and took one of the gingerbread cats Pomona had made her.

She wasn't afraid, which surprised her somewhat. Neither was she regretful or angry, because after a certain age you know with increasingly certainty that whatever the future has in store, it hasn't a lot of it for yourself. Most of all, Minerva was happy that her case, as she liked to think of it as, was handled by a man - a person - who obviously took pride in his workmanship. She said so much.

YOU FLATTER ME, PROFESSOR McGONAGALL, he answered and bowed slightly. I AM HAPPY TO SAY THAT I RARELY HAVE COMPLAINTS. HOWEVER, IT IS RARE TO BE INVITED FOR TEA. IT IS MOST POLITE OF YOU.

To her amazement, Minerva felt herself blushing.

"Please..." she said, but she couldn't find any way of finishing the sentence, so she left it hanging. She took another sip of her tea.

"You must be very busy," she noted. "I'm surprised that you find time for a litle chit-chat with a client."

THE SAME, SPEAKING OF USE OF AVAILABLE TIME, COULD BE SAID WITH RATHER MORE ACCURACY FOR YOURSELF, Death noted. Minerva shrugged.

"My affairs are in order," she said. "The classes for next term are prepared, and the new girl is keen. They will manage."

SPEAKING OF AFFAIRS... Death hinted. Minerva nodded and put down her cup.

"Very well," she said and reached for her cloak. She hesitated.

"I won't need this, will I?" she asked.

THAT IS NOT VERY LIKELY.

"Very well then, let's go."

Together they left her office and walked down through the corridors of Hogwarts, to the spot by the lake that Minerva had chosen for herself. Her back was straight, and she didn't look back.

Death couldn't help feeling that this turned out to be one of his more pleasant jobs. He had always had a soft spot for cats, after all.


End file.
